Breathe from the gentle South, O LORD,

And cheer me from the North;

Blow on the treasures of thy word,

And call the spices forth!

I wish, thou know’st, to be resigned,

And wait with patient hope;

But hope delayed fatigues the mind,

And drinks the spirit up.

Help me to reach the distant goal;

Confirm my feeble knee;

Pity the sickness of a soul

That faints for love of thee.

Cold as I feel this heart of mine,

Yet since I feel it so;

It yields some hope of life divine

Within, however low.

I seem forsaken and alone,

I hear the lion roar;

And every door is shut but one,

And that is mercy’s door.

There, till the dear Deliv’rer come,

I’ll wait with humble prayer

And when he calls his exile home,

The Lord, shall find me there.